


Kittens in a Warzone

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Kittens in a Warzone [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Kittens in a warzone, M/M, Warzone, With tiny smidgen of angst, Zombie Apocalypse AU!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little thing, along the lines of "Stories from the War Front" series. So it's an AU!John, where he's actually in 16 Air Assault Brigade, not the Fusiliers. </p><p>Don't shoot me.</p><p>And there are kittens. </p><p>This may become a series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kittens in a Warzone

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Not Brit-picked, Beta'd, or even really bothered with much. It's a fun little drabble. So if it sucks, I'm sorry. *shrugs*

“Lost, Captain?”

Watson looked up at the colonel - the name tag attached to the front of his dress shirt read Henkel. “No, sir. Just looking for my room here.”

The brick wall of a man stared down at him. “You are new here.”

 _‘Obviously,_ ’ Watson thought, but he simply nodded at him. “Just transfered. Spent a week at home, then hopped back on a transport back here. Ready to get to work, sir.”

“Good. Glad to have you, Captain Watson. Bastion’s a big place, and from what I hear, you aren’t used to base life.” The colonel raked his eyes over Watson. “Try not to get underfoot.” He turned side-on and slid past him, and continued walking, which was a really good move on his part, because John had been two seconds away from a disciplinary action and a note in his file. God only knew he has enough notes in his fuckin’ file already. No need for another for chining a superior officer. He pushed the anger down deep into his gut and looked back down at his base map, something he’d made up, from memory, when he’d been bored at Gibraltar one day between patrols. _‘It’s...still accurate. I think.’_ He scowled a bit more at the paper in his tanned hands. _‘Could have sworn the quarters were this way...’_

He walked face first into - who else? - Captain McIntyre. “Oi, you git, out of my way.” He swatted at the slim commando, and shoved the map into his front breast pocket.

“What’s the hurry, John?”

He looked up at his obstacle. “Scott, I’m tired, and trying to find my damned bunk.”

“Oh.” He stepped back, out of the way of his friend. “So dinner at the mess is out of the question?”

John stopped. “Ice cream?” he said, hopefully.

“Twist, vanilla, and chocolate.”

“I’m there. Lead the way, Captain.”

********  
  
  
  


“So, who the hell is Colonel Henkel, anyway?”

Scott waved his spoon in the air in front of his face as he swallowed a big mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “Oh, just some hoighty-toighty bastard from Herford with a BHC.”

“BHC?” John scraped the inner rim of his plastic cup.

“Big Head Complex. He’s just a fucker, ignore him.”

John sighed. “He’s already pissing me off though. Is he a regular here?”

“I think he’s here for a while.”

John dropped his head to the table. “Oh, fuck me...”

“Oh, it’ll be fine, mate. Chin up!” Scott brushed his hand over John’s cheek. “You will fit in here just fine.”

John looked up at him, and rubbed his bad leg, the one that took some shrapnel from an I.E.D a few months back. “I belong out there, you know that.”

“And you will be going back out there. Trust me, they aren’t going to keep your arse packed away in a box, they are putting your arse on a M.E.R.T. because of your combat experience, and you will be leading that team because you are a motherfucker who leads, yeah?” Scott leaned forward and hissed at John, nose only millimeters from cheek. “So don’t fuck around with Colonel Fistfucker, alright? You are an officer too, and you are a fuckin’ Para.”

John nodded, and Scott gripped his battle dress shirt by the shoulder.

“You are a Para, and you are 16 Medical, and you are a motherfuckin’ LEGEND. Son of a bitch hasn’t heard of you because he’s too busy shoving his face up the arses of the top brass, yeah? You are Bulldog Watson, and you fuck up arsewipes who get in your way.”

Now Watson was grinning hard. “Yeah.”

“You hear me.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ Para!”

John grinned even harder, and slapped Scott on the shoulder. “Fuck yeah.”

“Say it, Bulldog.” Scott stood up. “I’m a Commando, mother fucker!” He fisted his hands over his head. “Ooh-rah!”

John shook his head. “Okay, alright, you overly cocky son of a bitch, sit down.”

“Not until you do it, Watson!”

“No.”

“Do it, Captain!”

John stood up, filled his lungs to capacity, and shouted. “I’m a Para, mother fucker! Ooh-rah!” His face turned beet red, and he sat back down. “There, I did it, shut your fuckin’ face and sit down before you get us on notice.”

Amid the laughter from the far corner of the mess hall - engineers, of course - John leaned back and laughed with his friend, knowing that he would, eventually fit in.

********  
  
  
  


He finally found the right barracks, and found his room amongst the other cubicle-type rooms along the walls. “Sure nice to be an officer at a base.” He nodded to himself and pushed open the door. The room was simple, spartan and clean, save for the light coating of grey dust that permeates everything in this country. He sighed and tossed his kit onto the bare bones bed...and recoiled as an angry squawk erupted from the bed linens. Before he could think, his Browning was out and in his hands, safety off and tracking for targets lying behind, on, or in the bed...

A bright orange tabby scrambled out of the blanket and blinked at him. “Myeh.”

He lowered the pistol. “Hello there.” Almost as an afterthought, he moved his pack to the floor, and discovered three more writhing lumps in the covers. Thankfully, his main battle kit was at the door, or these poor things would most likely be crushed under the weight. The lumps moved forward until, one by one, they popped their little heads out of the blanket next to their brother. Or sister. He didn’t know. There was a grey tabby, a dirty calico, and another orange tabby. The first one was obviously the leader of this little squad because it cleaned all of it’s siblings and then meowed at him again, the sound loosening something in his chest.

“Are we hungry?”

The word ‘hungry’ was known to the little things, because as one they started a cat chorus to the tune of ‘we want food and we want it now please good sir give us food’, and John smiled as he bent over to root in his pack for something out of his MREs. The kittens tumbled and plopped and yowled off the bed, winding around his legs and climbing his trousers as he straightened again, carrying a tuna casserole MRE, oh, they are going to love this.

As soon as he had it heated up and open, the yowling got louder. He looked down at them, pacing and turning and climbing him like a tree, and chuckled. Their individual personalities were coming to the forefront.

The calico, whom he was going to name Kali, she was the quiet one of the group. Her meow could barely be heard, a rasp and a high pitched squeak that made his heart melt. The first orange tabby, Sarge, was definitely a male, and he was rather articulate and patient, but he was quick to launch a smack at one of his brothers and sisters if they were out of line.

“Good traits in a leader,” John told him.

“Myyyeah,” Sarge responded, sitting patiently at the toe of his right boot.

The second orange tabby, Billie, was a troublemaker from the start. Between raking her claws down his larger pack, climbing up his back even after he’d shucked the battle dress shirt and his underarmor shirt, and knocking her cup of tuna casserole off the bed onto the floor, she was a right hellion. She reminded John of his own sister Harry. Sarge constantly had to smack Billie and even hissed at her, and all she did was hiss back.

“That’s pretty much it, right there.” He patted Sarge on the back, and he grumble-growled around his tuna. “Sorry, lad. It won’t get much better.”

The grey tabby was another hellion, but to Kali instead of John’s things. The big boy wouldn’t leave the smaller girl alone, and wouldn’t listen to Sarge very well. He constantly nipped and bit and even stole food from Kali, and for all of her hissing and spitting and even getting a claw hooked into his shoulder, he wouldn’t stop. Sarge growled and spat, too, but it didn’t make much of a difference; the boy would stop for a bit, but turn right back around and start up again. John finally intervened, picking him up by the scruff of the neck and leveling a glare at him.

“So, your name’s going to be Dick, yeah? Dick, you are going to listen to me and Sarge, or you don’t get tuna. I’ll feed you bread and water, understand?”

“Rrrowww-hisssssss”

“Don’t give me that attitude, soldier, or you are going to be cleaning the loos. You read me?”

“Mrrrowoww...”

Sarge looked up from his food and climbed onto John’s shoulder, licking his jowls and purring.

“John, you have got to be kidding me. You are giving orders to a cat?”

Watson nearly dropped Dick, and Sarge jumped off his shoulder and skittered under the covers. Kali and Billie followed, leaving poor Dick dangling in John’s hand and looking rather sorry for himself. John looked up at McIntyre. “Yes, I am. He’s being a dick.”

The man moved further into the room, and dropped his pack next to John’s. “So, you have kittens.”

“Yes. Came with the room, apparently.” He patted the lumps under the covers. “Would have sat on them if Sarge hadn’t come out to let me know they were there.”

“Sarge, huh?” Scott leaned over and rubbed the lumps. Squeaks and meows floated out of the bed. “I saw a couple other flashes.”

“Kali and Billie.” John looked up at the altogether too close Marine. “Scott, what’s up?”

“Need you to take a look at something for me.”

“Oh. Right.” John licked his lips, and set Dick on the floor. “What is it?”

“Just a scratch, but it looks...weird.”

That earned him a sigh. “Are you taking care of it? Take off your shirt and sit down.”

Scott huffed out a breath. “Yes, I’m taking care of it, it’s fine, it just looks weird to me. Can we do this without the third degree?” He stripped his tee shirt over his head and tossed it next to John. “I’m heading out again tonight, and just want to have it looked at.” The bed dipped as he settled his weight on it.

“Okay, yes, alright. Calm down.” John smiled, and smoothed his hand over Scott’s ribs, inspecting the healing abrasions caused by an I.E.D. ; the story of their lives in this part of Afghanistan. “You have to keep in mind, I’m a doctor, and it’s my job to give the third degree.”

“Yeah.” Scott jumped when Billie sank her claws into the hard muscles of his lower back. “Jesus fuckin - John, your kitten is trying to use me as - ow! - a scratching post!”

“Billie!” John used Scott’s shirt as a weapon to shoo away the tabby. “Don’t do that!” He looked up at Scott. “Sorry about that, she does the same to me.”

“I think she’s circling for a better angle...oh.” Scott looked down to find Kali in his lap, settled in the crook of his knee. “I’m liked.”

“You are warm.” John smiled warmly, and poked at the cuts. “Are you taking the antibiotics?”

“Yeah.”

“As prescribed?”

“As many times as our medic shoves them at me.” Scott huffed again. “Trust me, I don’t want the bugs they’ve got in the sand here.”

“No, you do not. But this isn’t healing the way I want it to.” John peered at the skin. “I think I’m going to give you a booster. Stay here.” He stood up, and Sarge walked over to the edge of the bed and launched himself off to cling to his bare shoulder. “Yeowch, damn it, Sarge, you little shit!”

“Myeah.”

Scott laughed. John scowled at them both. “Is that all you can say, Sarge?”

“Myeaaaah.”

“I take that as a yes.” He continued to his main pack, the one with the full medical kit in it. “Tell me your allergies, Scott.”

“None.”

“Any sensitivities to medication, food, ragweed, that sort of thing?”

“Nope.”

“Current medication?”

“The tetracycline they’ve got me on, paracetamol, and...” Scott sighed. “Nicotine.”

John froze. “You have cigarettes?”

“...yes.”

“Give.”

“Damn it, I knew you’d want one. Damn it. I told Sue you were done with them.”

John turned around, a vial of antibiotic and a wrapped needle in his right hand. “Yeah, and you also said you were done, too. Give me a fag, already.”

Scott pulled the packet of cigarettes out of his thigh pocket and tossed them to John. “Here. Take one and give me the fuckin’ shot already.”

“Alright.” John stuck one between his lips and tossed the packet back, and readied the shot. “So. When are you leaving tonight?” Sarge bent down and sniffed the vial, and muttered in a kitten way as he purred away on John’s shoulder. John smiled again, then winced as the kitten tightened his claws in his pectoral. “You are lucky you are a baby, or I’d be clipping those weapons.” He moved to Scott’s side and loaded the syringe. “Quick pinch -” He caught the man’s arm up, pushed the needle in, depressed the plunger, and that was it. Scott didn’t even have time to complain about it. “All done.”

“In about three hours.” Scott rubbed at his shoulder. “Goin’ back to Sangin.”

John sat back down in front of him. “Sangin. Didn’t that place just get hit last night?”

“Yep. Which is why my squad is heading back already.” Scott shrugged. “Par for the course, really.”

“Yeah.” John lit the cigarette with a battered steel lighter, and sucked in the smoke. Sarge patted at his face with a paw. “Oh, Sarge, it’s okay. I just need something adult right now.” He winked at the kitten, and at Scott. “Something very adult.”

The Marine smirked, and leaned forward with his own cigarette held between two fingers. “Hold still, you son of a bitch.”

Scott touched the end of it to the cherry of the one in John’s mouth, put it on his lips and drew in hard to light it, his cheeks hollowing out and his eyelids fluttering shut. John reached out and laid his rough, calloused hands on his friend’s face, stroking over those closed eyes with his thumbs. Scott relaxed under the touch, sighing softly and smiling around the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled back enough to shift it over, and looked into John’s eyes. “That felt good. No wonder Sue loves your hands.”

John smirked, smoke curling up around his face. “I’ve very good with my hands.”

“Myeaaaah.”

The two men laughed as Sarge leaned forward and licked Scott on the nose.

“Let’s finish with these before you prove to me just how good your hands really are, Captain.” Scott pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and gestured with it. “Better be worth it.”

John smirked. “Oh. It is.”

 


End file.
